The Donut Thief

I apologize for the length of time between e-mails.  West Africa reared her ugly head, and when the phone company attempted to improve the Rosso internet connection to a higher speed, all they achieved was in destroying it entirely.  We have not had access since early January.  The reason I get to type now is because I am in Nouakchott, along with every other volunteer in-country.  This makes the computer room a bit crowded.

 

The past few weeks have been happy ones, despite the fact that I was robbed.  Twice.  Don't freak out mom, I'm fine, and I have shiny new locks on the doors, so this will never happen again.  The first time I was robbed was back in January, when I took the stoves into Rosso and was out of my site for 4 days.  I came back to find that someone had come into my house, not that hard since one of the doors didn't lock, and taken my bag of cfa, the west africa currency they use across the river in the Dagana market, as well as my bottle of bleach.  So whomever the thief is, he is sparkly white.  I harassed my landlord as best I am able in Hassaniya, he promised to fix the locks, then told me I owed him 60,000 ougiya.  My rent is 5,000 a month.  He wanted a year in advance.  Right Siddi Moktar, like that's going to happen.  I told him no, he's getting 5000.  I fully intend to move into Thomas's house come July, so there is no way I am paying out that much, especially since I don't have it.  Anyway, so I resign myself to the dimmest of hopes that Siddi Moktar will fix the locks and move on with life.  I plant a few Moringa trees for my neighbors, tutor Mariam across the street (she loves the flashcards by the way Aunt Liz and Uncle Steve, thanks a lot) and fret about my tree nursery, which was being overwatered and now slightly resembled a swamp.  I went back to Rosso the first of February to meet Steph's parents who came from Japan and to eat the Chinese food that Dan, recently returned from the USA, was preparing. 

 

Steph's parents are adorable, by the by, and were lots of fun to hang out with.  I finally got back to the village on a Sunday morning.  Wednesday I left my house unlocked when I went to schoo at 10.  When I returned at 11, someone had been in my house again, the 100 ougiya note (about 30 cents American) was missing from on top of the mat, and it was obvious someone had lifted up the mat to check undernead for more money.  So I made a mental note to go yell at Siddi Moktar again, right after breakfast.  I had purchased 6 beignets, little donuts, kind of like fried dough, that morning.  I had eaten 3 with my coffee, and saved 3 for after school.  I had been looking forward to their sweet, oily goodness for the last 25 minutes.

 

Or so I had planned.  When I entered the other room, I realized it was not to be.

 

The thief had eaten my breakfast.

 

I was at the police station in 30 seconds.  You don't screw around with the white girls' food.

 

The one english speaking gendarme took me to see the hakem, who called in Siddi Moktar.

 

I had new locks within 4 days.

 

I made them put in the official report that the bastard had eaten my breakfast, which the police didn't seem to find very important but which I considered the most heinous aspect of the crime.

 

So when other volunteers ask me how I have been, I inevitably end up telling them the story of the robber who stole my breakfast.

 

Don't worry, I am now the owner of two very safe locks.

 

Of course, at the same time that three men were working on my doors the people who own the property arrived from Nouakchott and decided to spend the day.  Nora mint Mahlfoul and her husband were wonderfully cheerful and friendly white moorswho arrived in their own car, and they fed me twice, which I appreciated.  I find it easier sometimes to make friends with the wealthier members of Mauritanian society, simply because I don't have to wonder whether they are talking to me because they want to get to know me, or because they want me to give them things, which sadly, is what some of the less well off people are sometimes really after.  It can be very frustrating.  So it was nice to spend time with a couple who actually seemed to like each other, another rare phenomenon in this country.  They were shocked, however, to hear that my parents were still together (I chose to consider this a reflection on how easy and often Mauritanians get divorced, as opposed to assuming that any parents of mine would be so distraught they would inevitably separate).  I promised them I would come see them while I was here, but unfortunately I never got the chance.  I hope to see them the next time I'm in town.

 

We all head out to Dakar tomorrow, well, 62 of us in any case, to take on the other white people in the West African Invitational Softball Tournament.  I don't play softball, but I'll be supporting our two teams, the RIM Pirates, and the RIM Swashbucklers.  As a supporter, I get to wear a T shirt that says "RIM Seamen, a Quest for Moor Booty".

 

The desert does things to you, what can I say? 

 

We get to face teams like the Tigers, the children of missionaries, most of them about 14, most of them girls.  Last time they played us the score was 13-0.  They won.  They are our first game in Saturday, as our team captian warned "They will be sober.  They will have practiced."

 

It's going to be an interesting weekend.  Apparantly Dakar is like a real city.

 

~amy